am I stitching up seams, or pulling on triggers?

flora

It’s nearly everything she’s ever wanted from him, the kind of words that could have undone her once upon a time. But they come dressed wrong, dressed in Jack’s way; soft only until the blade shows. It hits her like a riptide turned cold, water rushing out at her knees until she’s left scrambling for ground that isn’t there.

When his grip slackens she feels it everywhere, her skin prickling to gooseflesh, a shiver running deep enough to shake her bones. She’s never felt so naked as she does in this instant, with their easy intimacy and affection suddenly feeling like it was being wielded against her. This too feels familiar if only because she knows how quickly the tide can turn around Jack—how he could turn warmth into steel, a kiss into a cliff edge—but still, when she pushes back from him, her eyes are wide, bright with hurt she can’t smother fast enough.

"Jack," she breathes, her voice catching on the edges of his name, imploring, pleading. She shakes her head, curls tumbling forward, before the heat in her chest twists sharp into something else. The hollow, clawing ache of being left behind by him again steels her spine, pulls her chin high with grit she barely feels steady on.

"It isn’t that simple," she whispers, then harder, fiercer, as her gaze cuts down at him. "Especially not when you can just decide it is and shove the rest on me. Either I make the choice right now, or I fuck off your ship—that’s it?" Her voice shakes with fury and hurt, with the impossible unfairness of it, and still she holds his gaze like she refuses to be the one to look away first.

you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!